


Honorbound

by banjotea



Series: Rels Llethri [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Assassination, Betrayal, Coming of Age, Duty, Gen, House Redoran, Lore-Friendly, Mephala worship, Morag Tong, Not a Nerevarine story, Personal Growth, cowardice, genfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjotea/pseuds/banjotea
Summary: Rels Llethri, (until recently) of Redoran, would do almost anything to prove he knew the true meaning of Honor.And the Morag Tong might just give him that chance.
Series: Rels Llethri [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690051
Comments: 64
Kudos: 40





	1. Vivec

“A whole bottle of greef, please, Raril!”

The publican smiled and took a bottle from the shelf. “Your fighter won this time, then, did he?”

“He did indeed,” said Rels. “The odds were completely off. Anyone could see that lizard’s footing gave him the upper hand on the Nord. Even I could’ve won that fight if I still had my armor.” He took a deep swig of his greef then.

Raril shook his head, beginning to wipe a glass. “You might win more by fighting than wagering, if you’re so sure. Why not give it a try?”

“Like I said, I had to pawn my armor off...”

He heard the barest snort from the stool beside him. A robed Altmer was a few cups deep into a bottle of something fancy and mumbling to himself.

“Is something funny, Outlander?” Rels demanded. 

“The Dunmeri capacity for self-sabotage is amusing, yes,” he said in a deep voice. “One wonders why I even waste my talents in the Morrowind Mages’ Guild when I might have gone somewhere civilized...”

“You’re one to talk, coming in here and insulting us in our own homeland! Why not just run back to Summerset with your books and crystal towers?”

The Altmer grinned and took a sip from his tiny cup. “Would that I could, actually. But no, I’m stuck in this ash heap you heathens call a homeland until my work is done.”

Rels stood up, sending his stool wobbling. “Rels, there’s a good lad...” he heard behind him. He looked back at the Raril’s supplicant expression and tried to take a deep breath.

The Altmer was undisturbed. “I say, what’s that on your hand, boy?” He squinted, and Rels compulsively hid the brand on the back of his hand. “Isn’t that the mark of Great House Redoran? Why are you drinking in the Foreign Quarter among the n’wahs then?”

“None of your business!”

“Oho, I’ve hit a nerve!” he said delightedly. “Could it be the mark of expulsion? What an honor to drink alongside an outcast of your stature…”

Rels drew his sword to attack, but his swing hit a shower of sparks as the Altmer vanished, leaving behind his bottle. It smashed to the floor and the stench of liquor hit the air. Raril and several patrons cried out in alarm, and then there was silence.

An Argonian in the corner chuckled.

“I’m sorry.” Rels felt his face burn.

Raril rubbed the side of his face and looked around at the mess, then at the sword. “You know I like you, lad, but this can’t happen again.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna have to ask you to pay for his drink, too.”

“How much?”

“That stuff ain’t cheap. Hundred drakes a bottle, plus thirty for your own. Have you got it?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” There went his winnings, and then some.

Rels left the Black Shalk that night with more fingers than drakes to his name, and began wandering Vivec in search of a safe spot to sleep. 

Whenever he could, he usually took the gondola from the Foreign Quarter to avoid the Redoran district, but it wasn’t worth the two gold this time. He took the bridge to Redoran and hid his hands in his pockets, hoping nobody would recognize him on his way to the Arena canton. 

Feeling the warm breeze run through his clothes, he supposed there were worse nights to hit rock bottom on. His last night in Ald-ruhn, there’d been an ash storm. Tonight, though, boded well for fishing in the morning. Maybe that was just the thing he needed to clear his head, to head over to Lake Amaya and bait slaughterfish for a hearty meal.

He stopped and turned around when he reached the Arena canton. Across the canal, the huge Redoran banner swayed in the breeze, calling him to come home. Home, where his own father had been the one to press the brand into his skin without saying a word.

He would go back someday. He would figure something out.

“Keep moving,” said an Ordinator walking behind him. Rels started and began making his way to the ramp up to the waistworks level. He’d always admired the Ordinators as a boy, but these days all he noticed was the mace they carried.

There were no quiet corners to spend the night in the waistworks, unless he truly did want to join the fighters there. Not a good idea. He’d already run from a fight once, and didn’t think he’d survive a second time.

Down in the canalworks, another Ordinator was patrolling. “Watch yourself,” he said in passing, barely audible above the rushing of water. Was that a threat or a warning?

Rels found a room with nothing but dusty crates and a few rats. After taking care of the rats, he stopped and listened for several minutes. No footsteps ever approached the door. He would be safe here for the night.

There were three doors, two of which were locked. The unlocked door opened into a makeshift bedroom, with stacked furniture and a bedroll with some stale food. If anyone were to come in, Rels reasoned, it was most likely they’d come in here. The locked door next to that one opened with a bit of convincing, and revealed another rat guarding a chest. He would look like a thief for sure if he slept in here.

The final door zapped him when he got it open, and he cursed in pain for a few minutes before looking inside. Just more crates, and a tightly locked trapdoor. Probably to keep the bandits living down below from coming up to steal from the storage. He sat down on the floor and pulled out his last Potion of Recall, just in case. 

If he locked the door again from the inside, he’d be ready to make his escape as soon as he heard somebody trying to open it. It would have to do for now.

When he settled down and closed his eyes, he could still see the reddish ash clouds blocking out the sun and invading the narrow visor of his helmet as he marched up the foyada with Councilman Sarethi. It had been sweltering that day, he remembered. Sweat had streamed down his face, pooling at his neck. All he could hear were the rush of the storm and the creaking of his armor.

Suddenly, a yelp of surprise. He’d spun around to see Councilman Sarethi cowering at the sight of an approaching assassin in netch leather armor.

He’d heard words over the storm. “—been marked for—in accordance to the lawful—Tong.” Rels had pulled out his sword, and so the assassin had come after him first.

He remembered how much his feet had ached from running, and how filthy his face had been when he’d finally stopped and realized what he’d done.

He opened his eyes to the dim storage closet. He’d find a way to make it up to them. If it took him a century, he would walk back into Ald-ruhn as a legitimate member of society again.

Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes and slept.

The next thing he knew was the rustling of a sack being pulled over his head and the sensation of being dragged bodily into a hole in the floor.

He tried to scream, but whoever it was smacked his head with enough force to bring tears to his eyes. He could hear hoarse breathing above him as he was dragged by the armpits along a twisting hallway. All he could see through the sack was that the place was well lit, and there were possibly several people standing around. His heart raced. There was no getting out of here.

They stopped at the end of a long straight passage, and Rels’ arms were wrenched behind his back before the sack was ripped off his head. He glanced around to regain his bearings, and his eyes fell upon a middle-aged Dunmer with long hair and burgundy robes. 

“Here he is, Grandmaster,” grunted the Orc who had taken him here.

“Let him stand,” said the Dunmer. His weathered face looked grim.

Rels was released and stood on unsteady legs. This was an organization of some kind, but why all the secrecy, unless…?

“Rels Llethri,” the Grandmaster said. Rels felt his heart stop. “I am Eno Hlaalu. If you wish, you may request to join the Morag Tong.”

What were the chances he could just walk away from this meeting? “How do you know my name? Why am I here?” he asked, looking for any way to buy time to think.

“The Morag Tong has been watching you, and we are pleased. You have the makings of a skilled and honorable assassin. Join us.”

“I...what? Why do you say that?” What would happen if he said no? Would they keep watching him? Would he have to leave the city?

The Grandmaster was patient. “You possess skill with a blade and swift reflexes. You hunt game like a predator, yet you do not steal. Your eye for martial talent will protect you in the field. You also need an income. What do you say, Rels Llethri?”

It had been a long time since anyone had said anything positive about him, and it didn’t sound like him at all. It felt ludicrous to consider, but if he promised to join, they would at least let him out of here for sure, and then he could think about getting out of it.

“I’ll join,” Rels said finally. “What do I need to do?” Almalexia’s mercy.

Eno Hlaalu nodded once and took a small scroll from his pocket. “Very good. I will let you join as a probationer. To gain full membership, you must pass a test. Here is a writ for the honorable execution of Drosa Farano. You can find her in her home in Suran. Slay her honorably and report to me.”

Rels swallowed and took the writ handed to him, trying not to remember the assassin’s words just before killing Councilman Sarethi. Time to go.

Before he could turn around to leave, however, the Orc beside him thrust the sack back onto his head and frog-marched him the way they came. 

“Is this necessary?” Rels asked, voice slightly muffled.

“You’re not an official member yet, kid,” the Orc replied. “Can’t have you spilling our secrets if you change your mind.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what everyone says.” Then he pulled the sack off again, ripping out a bit of hair with it. They were facing a ladder up to the trapdoor.

Remarkably, Rels had made it out alive. And the Morag Tong was keeping a close eye on him.


	2. Drosa Farano

Rels had no idea what time it was. When he stepped outside, it was an hour or so before dawn judging by the sky. Now that he was free, he allowed himself a yawn before trudging down to the lake to fish for his breakfast. He’d need his energy.

As soon as he was ankle-deep in the mud, a slaughterfish sank its teeth into his foot, and he stabbed into the blood-clouded water with his sword. Miss. “Hunt game like a predator, my ashy gray ass...” he grumbled. “N’chow.”

It took until the gray light of dawn for him to skewer a fish on the tip of his sword, and the sun had appeared before it was ready to eat. The meat was flavorless in his mood, and he stared at the final bite in his hand.

It had been him or the slaughterfish. It had been him or the councilman. He wondered if it was now him or his target, whoever she was. He wondered if he could still get away without being caught.

But he couldn’t leave without giving up on his House, and never seeing his family again.

Eno Hlaalu’s black gloves and solemn expression flashed in his mind. The sun was fully risen, now.

He pulled out the writ and unrolled it. Complete with a wax stamp at the bottom, it was impressively official. This was no whispered agreement with the Dark Brotherhood. If he went along with this, not even the Temple could say anything against it.

Then an idea came to him. That assassin belonged to the Morag Tong. And all Rels had to do was find him. If he could avenge Councilman Sarethi, he could earn back his honor and rejoin House Redoran.

It just might work.

He ate the last bite, brushed himself off, and began the journey to Suran on foot.

He arrived by dinnertime, though by silt strider he might have arrived by lunch. He’d never been to Suran. It appeared to be a bustling Hlaalu town, filled with shops and people going about their business. 

But now that he was here, how did he go about finding Drosa Farano? Did assassins normally ask around for their target? Was it only assassins that did that? Would she flee if she heard a stranger was looking for her?

Then again, he thought, looking down at his ragged clothing, he didn’t look like much of a threat. Nobody would even believe him if he claimed to be with the Morag Tong. He’d need a cover story.

There was a slave market near the entrance to the city, so he tried there first. “Excuse me, Sera,” he said to the merchant standing outside, “could you point me to Drosa Farano’s house? I have a message to deliver.”

“I’m not from here, boy. Can’t help you.”

Rels tried the Tradehouse next. The well-dressed shopkeeper inside looked hardly older than himself. “I’ve got a bit of everything. Have a look around,” he said in a friendly voice.

“I’m looking for Drosa Farano’s house, actually. Do you know where she lives?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

Rels suppressed a sigh. “I’m a courier. Got a message to deliver to her. I was told she lives here in Suran?”

“From who?”

“I wasn’t given a name. Do you know where she lives or not?” He couldn’t lose his patience. This Dunmer clearly knew her, and knew she was in trouble. That meant Rels was close. He took a breath. “I take it she doesn’t get many letters?”

“Not recently, no. She lives upstairs. Don’t expect a tip, though.”

“Thanks.”

He stepped back out the front door and breathed in the evening air. If this didn’t work, he’d be stuck staking out the house for days, possibly weeks. With no money for food. And his cover blown. The Tong would probably put out a writ on him just to spare themselves the humiliation. No pressure.

Rels climbed the steps to the upstairs balcony and knocked on the door before he could lose his nerve. For a minute, there was silence. He knocked again. There was a small shadow moving inside the window, and he tried to look as innocent as possible in case she was watching him.

The town seemed to have gone silent. He could only hear his own heartbeat. He knocked again, hoping to bring some noise back to the world.

The door opened a crack, and he saw one scarlet eye peering out at him. “What do you want?” she hissed.

Rels cleared his throat. “Are you Drosa Farano? I have a letter for you.”

The crack in the doorway narrowed, and Rels nearly panicked. Then it widened again, showing her outstretched hand. “Give it here, then, and away with you.”

This wasn’t turning out how he’d hoped. He needed another excuse.

“I’ve got strict orders, Ser Farano,” he said, thinking fast. “I won’t be paid unless I watch you read it and then return with your response.” Neither of them spoke for a moment. “It sounded very serious,” he added.

She gave a harsh sigh and opened the door. “Fine. Fine. Come in. Quickly.” Drosa Farano pulled him in by the arm and shut the door. “Well? Give it to me.”

Rels glanced around at the small room, only seeing one interior door. Good enough, he supposed. He pulled out the writ from his pocket, noticing how her eyes followed his hands. He would have to be fast.

She snatched the writ and glared at him, and as soon as her eyes moved to the paper to unroll it, Rels drew his sword, slashing wildly upwards. Farano screeched. Her chest and chin were bleeding. The writ fell to the floor, and Rels stepped on it in his advance. He stabbed her once in the gut to keep her from running, then sliced her throat to finish the job. Every cut was still pumping out blood when she fell. His mouth and nostrils were filled with the stench of it.

There was the sound of footfalls coming up the stairs. Rels scrambled around for the writ. He found it behind him on the stained rug. He nearly dropped it in his rush to get outside, where he met the shopkeeper. He shoved him out of the way with bloody hands and bounded down the stairs.

“Stop!” he heard somewhere to his left. “You’re under arrest!”

His feet wanted to speed up, but he forced himself to stop. Breathless now, he held out the writ for the Hlaalu guard.

The fully armored guard took the half-crushed paper and read it. Rels forced himself to take deep breaths. He was in the clear. They couldn’t touch him.

“Your papers are in order. You’re free to go.” The guard then gave him a very obvious once over. “You might save on clothes if you work on your technique, kid.”

“Yeah,” Rels breathed. Against his wishes he felt his face grow hot again. “I’ll work on it.”

His legs just barely carried him out of the city to collapse on the shore of Lake Masobi. 

He pulled off his shoes and rinsed them in the water. They looked salvageable, only a spot or two of blood, aside from the soles. His shirt was sticking to his chest, so he pulled it off, looked at it in the failing light, and tossed it out into the lake. He’d look better naked than wearing that now. His pants were dark brown, so the stains could be explained away. Hopefully.

Now there was nothing left to distract him. His breathing was ragged and his hands were still shaking. It seemed like the time to cry, but his head felt like stone.

Slaughterfish didn’t scream when he stabbed them. He’d thought it would be more similar, but it was not. His mind ran through different morbid scenarios, thinking of a way he could have made it painless for her. He wondered how a real Morag Tong assassin would have handled it.

But he was a real one now.

It was dark, and he was tired. He’d been woken up at Three-knew-when, and hadn’t eaten since that morning. His stomach twisted at the memory of the fish. Maybe he could try to live off of ash yams and bread for a while. Once he was paid, he could buy any food he wanted.

After a nap on the shore, he picked himself up and began the trek back to Vivec.

He had to remember what he was doing this for.

Drosa Farano hadn’t been his first murder. No, that had been Councilman Sarethi, when he’d turned tail and left him to the assassin. He had to make up for his mistake. If only he’d found an easier way than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a couple liberties with Suran's map, but since it's in the interests of heightening tension, I figured it was all right. Lol. Feedback is appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	3. Galvis Ulven

“Look who it is! Missing something?”

“Leave the kid alone, Dral. He looks half dead.”

Rels clenched his teeth and strode past the other members. Turning a corner, he saw the Orc sitting in a dining room sharpening a blade. The Orc looked up and gave a belly laugh at the sight of him.

“Gave the shirt off your own back for the job, eh? Now that’s dedication!”

“Where’s the Grandmaster?”

“Right to business. I like it. Round the corner and up the hall. Oh, and kid,” he added as Rels left, “you have the hunt in your face. Welcome.”

“Thanks.” Whatever that meant.

Eno Hlaalu looked up from something he was writing when he entered the room. “Rels Llethri. Have you completed your test?”

“Yes. I killed her.”

“And you presented your writ of execution to the authorities?”

“Yes, Grandmaster.”

“Excellent. You now belong to the Morag Tong. Welcome, Associate. Come back when you are...prepared, for your next writ.” He glanced down at his bare chest.

Rels cleared his throat. “Um, actually… I don’t have anything else to wear.” They already knew he had no money, but it still felt shameful to say aloud.

“I see.” The Grandmaster put down his pen, unlocked a small chest, and took out some gold. “I suppose I can give you an advance on your next writ, provided you execute it swiftly. Here is one hundred for now. And here is a writ for Galvis Ulven, here in Vivec. He lives in St. Olms. Slay him honorably, and return for the rest of your payment.”

“Thank you. I will.” A hundred drakes, and he hadn’t even done it yet? This could get him all the way to Gnisis, if he wanted! But it was too early to think of that. If he just finished this next kill, he might get enough to scout out every guildhall in Vvardenfell for that assassin…

He left the headquarters and made his way to the Foreign Quarter, happily paying the gondolier for passage. 

He bought himself a few pieces of used netch leather armor, and put it on outside the armory. It felt flimsy to his taste, but the bonemold was far out of his price range. Counting his coin, he realized there was enough left over to buy a drink. 

After all, if Galvis Ulven put up a fight, it could be his last drink.

Raril greeted him as he entered the Black Shalk Cornerclub. “Well, well, look at you! Finally got some armor!”

Rels sat at the bar and took out his coin. “I sure did. And I’ll have one glass of your finest flin, please! Always wanted to try that.”

“Only a glass? Not a whole bottle for the newest member of the nobility?”

“Come on, Raril, it’s not even a full set of armor.” He picked up the glass and inspected the pricey brown liquid in the light. “But who knows? If I like it, maybe I’ll come back for a bottle next time.”

“Found some work, then, have you?”

He should have anticipated the question. “Yeah. Hunting.” He took a tiny sip of the flin. It was much more complex than his usual greef or mazte, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. 

“May I join you?” said a raspy voice behind him. It was the lightly-armored Argonian he sometimes saw here.

“Um, sure,” said Rels. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“You have already done it, Associate.” The Argonian sat on the stool next to him, smiling broadly. “My name is Huleeya, Thrall of the Morag Tong.”

Rels nearly choked on his second sip of flin. “Are you the one who’s been watching me?”

Huleeya’s inner eyelids blinked, an unsettling sight. “Oh yes. It is one of my duties to scout out potential new members. When one of them passes the test to join, I am paid handsomely. Cheers to you for passing so quickly!”

“So...” The flin was now growing colder in his stomach. “Doesn’t that mean you should refer as many people as possible? Whether they can do it or not?”

The Argonian chuckled and clucked his tongue. “Of course not. I only send them the names of those in which I have confidence. I have my honor to uphold, and the honor of the guild.”

“Right.” He took another sip. It began to go down more smoothly now. “Well. You’re welcome.”

“I can see you wish to be alone with your drink, so I will leave now. Happy hunting, as you say.” And he left.

Rels swilled the last of his drink and shuddered at the taste.

“Maybe not a bottle, then?” Raril asked in a low voice. Rels looked over at him. He’d heard everything. Damn lizard.

“Maybe the brandy next time,” he muttered, looking down at his empty glass.

“Now don’t be like that. Between you and me,” he whispered conspiratorially, “you and him make more honest coin than half the fetchers I serve in here. Just keep bringing in the big money, eh?”

Rels smiled. If he lived through this writ, he’d buy rounds for the whole place.

St. Olms canton housed many of the humbler residents of Vivec, which could be either a good thing or a bad thing for him. He would have to wait and see whether he would be dealing with a petty merchant or a hardened bandit.

Several people he asked had never heard of any Galvis Ulven, or so they said. “I don’t want any trouble,” said one Dunmer woman carrying a child on her back.

So he was probably notorious. Perfect.

Rels was just beginning to consider searching the canton underworks when a gruff voice spoke from behind him. “Hear you’ve been looking for me. Here I am.”

He spun around, giving himself space on the wide waistworks balcony. Galvis Ulven was bulky for a Dunmer, with fur armor and a scar obscuring one eye. At the ready was an unwelcome sight: a warhammer. One blow with that hammer, and his brains would be dripping into the canal. 

Rels skipped backwards, pulling out his sword while Ulven charged. His steps were heavy and pounding. As long as Rels stayed out of that hammer’s reach, there was a chance. 

The hammer swung at him, and he bent backwards to avoid it, slashing upwards to strike at an arm. The skin broke, but it was shallow. Rels bent forwards again to miss the backswing, and darted out to the side. Before Ulven could bring his momentum around, Rels tried to slash the back of his knees. His cut was stopped by the fur greaves.

The warhammer was coming back. Ulven grunted in exertion, and brought it up, then into a downward swing.

Rels, seeing Death before him, rammed his sword into Ulven’s gut, piercing the armor and earning a roar of pain.

The hammer hit the ground at full force, not on Rels’ head, but an inch from his shoulder.

It wasn’t over yet. Two Ordinators were sprinting in their direction, maces drawn, and Ulven wasn’t dead yet. Rels tugged the sword from his torso and made a rough stab in the neck. Then he scrambled in his pocket for a bottle, bit off the cork, and dumped the contents into his mouth.

He popped into being on the bridge leading from the Foreign Quarter to the mainland, the location he’d Marked weeks before for emergencies. Now he was officially out of Recall potions, and would need to pick up another one after he was paid.

Then he remembered the writ in his other pocket. “N’chow,” he muttered. “Waste of a good potion.” It wasn’t everyday he was being chased by Ordinators, though.

He crossed back over the bridge and returned to the Arena canton to report the kill. Unlike Drosa Farano, Galvis Ulven felt like the right thing to do.


	4. Mephala

Rels returned to a bizarre sight. Everyone except the Orc was seated at the dining table, eating dinner together in the warm candlelight. As though it wasn’t a guild of assassins at all.

The other members nodded when he came in, letting the Grandmaster greet him first. “Hello, Associate,” he said over a plate of scuttle. “Is Galvis Ulven dead by your hand?”

Rels stood in the doorway, not sure where he should stand in the crowded room. “Yeah. I was almost killed by Ordinators, though.”

“But you gave them the writ of execution, though, right?” asked a Dunmer woman he’d never spoken to directly before. The entire table looked at him.

“Um, no. I still have it.”

Eno Hlaalu gave a small sigh. “Then the honor and credit for the kill cannot be awarded.” 

“But I killed him! There were witnesses!”

“You are lucky this was in Vivec, Associate. You must go back to the scene of the kill and present your writ to the Ordinators. We need to avoid unwanted consequences.” Eno Hlaalu wiped his mouth with a napkin and picked up his drink. 

Rels ran a hand over his face in agitation. The homeyness of the scene was unnerving him. “Like what?”

“Like the thousand drakes on your head, kid,” said the Dunmer whose voice he recognized as Dral. “If you lose your writ, anyone can take you in for a bag of gold.”

“More importantly,” the woman cut in, “the Morag Tong needs to claim credit for the kill so nobody gets ideas in their heads about taking revenge. Our job is preventing wars, not starting them.”

“Well said, Thinker,” said Eno Hlaalu. Then he looked directly at Rels. “It is not only for money, or honor, that we kill, Rels Llethri. The role of the Morag Tong is sacred. By failing to claim credit, you endanger the entire race.”

No, it didn’t matter he’d just narrowly avoided a warhammer to the skull, Rels was the threat. Right. He was the naughty child here. Of course. He wasn’t murdering people the right way. Obviously. He turned around and walked back to the trapdoor.

When he climbed the rungs to the ceiling, he saw the shiny scar on the back of his hand again and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He felt farther from home than ever.

After presenting his writ to the Ordinator standing watch over the cooling mess he’d left behind in St. Olms, Rels came back to find Eno Hlaalu sitting alone with his drink in the dining room. From the shape of the bottle, it looked to be sujamma. Rels had never liked the stuff.

“You finished it,” Eno Hlaalu stated. “I have your payment here.”

Rels took the heavy purse with wide eyes. “How much is this?”

“That is four hundred. Five hundred in total.”

“Five hundred drakes? For one job?”

“Yes, that is the starting rate.” The Grandmaster refilled his redware cup. “We provide an essential service.”

“But...” Rels said, not sure why he was arguing, “guards are essential too, and they aren’t paid this much.”

Eno Hlaalu fixed him with a stare that rooted him to the spot. It occurred to Rels then to wonder how many writs a Grandmaster had to have done.

“Do you wish to be paid less?”

“No! Of course not!” Rels swallowed, wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Sit.” 

Rels took the chair farthest from him, feeling his heartbeat speed up. He’d messed up again.

“You have a sense of justice about you. It was well that we recruited you, Rels Llethri.”

That...didn’t add up. He stared at the grain of the table, trying and failing to understand.

“Do you still doubt the Morag Tong executes justice?”

Yes. “I...don’t know.”

“Then you are not acquainted with Mephala.”

A memory flashed of Rels following his father to the family tomb, listening to stories of the ancestors and Almsivi. “I just know she’s the Anticipation of Lord Vivec.”

Eno Hlaalu took a drink and looked off into the distance. “The Morag Tong predates the Tribunal. Do you know the story of the Chimer?”

“I know Saint Veloth led the Chimer to Morrowind from Summerset Isle, and Azura made them the Dunmer.” He wondered where this was going, and when it would be polite to leave.

“That is so. Three Daedra spoke to him. Boethiah taught him the need for change, Mephala provided the tools, and Azura opened the path. One of Mephala’s tools was the Morag Tong itself. The Chimer were small and weak, with many enemies. It was only through Mephala’s arts of assassination that we could survive to this day.”

“We aren’t small and weak anymore, though. We have the protection of the Tribunal.”

The Grandmaster turned his heavy gaze on him. “But we are still mortal.” Rels was silent, and he continued, “Open warfare only helps our enemies, and is best left to Men, whose deaths are insignificant. The Morag Tong exists to clear the underbrush so the trees do not burn in the summer. This is the will of Mephala, and it is just. It is not for mortals to know why she, or he, helped us. If you honor the Prophet Veloth, you honor the Morag Tong.” He took another drink. “I know House Redoran are a pious people.”

Rels was shaken into answering. “I’m not Redoran anymore.”

“But you have not rejected their ways.” Then he stood up to leave. “Think on what I have said, Associate. Come find me when you are ready for your next writ.”

Rels sat immobile, head swimming with information. 

That night, he woke up with a start. At first he didn’t remember where he was, or why his bed was so soft. It was perfect darkness.

Then he heard a deep snort from across the room, and realized he was in his own bed at the Morag Tong guildhall. He belonged to the Morag Tong. He’d killed two people already. That was real.

But none of it felt real now.

Rels slid out of the bed and kept one hand on the wall to navigate his way downstairs. His eyes searched hungrily for light, but found none. A few times he blinked just to be sure his eyes were even open. There were sounds of slumber in all directions, as there was a bedroom downstairs as well. He silently avoided all of them, gravitating to the quietest corner of the hall. 

There he saw one lit candle, a blinding beacon flickering its welcome. 

The candle was perched on a large, rectangular surface: the shrine to Mephala. 

Hanging on the wall, almost undetectable, was a woven tapestry bearing her likeness. Rels stared at it. It was profane. Inscrutable.

Mephala. 

The very name felt dripping with violent intrigue. It was an ageless impulse, somehow deeper and darker than Lord Vivec. Rels only knew her as the Daedra Lord of murder, sex, and secrets, but tonight he could feel how inadequate that description was. He felt like a wisp of air between two strands of the Spider’s web. 

He wanted to make an offering. But didn’t know what.

The assassin’s life.

That would do.

He burned the question into his heart, then, not daring to speak aloud: Where is he?

He sat in silence for many long moments. Then returned to bed.


	5. Balmora

Rels stopped the first fellow member he knew in the hallway. “Hey, um, Dral, is it?”

“No need to keep track of names, Associate,” said the armored Dunmer. “Just call me Brother. Until I get promoted, anyway.”

“Works for me. I was just wondering, how many guildhalls are there in Vvardenfell? There can’t just be this one.”

Dral paused to adjust the position of his dagger. “As far as I know, there’s one in Sadrith Mora, Ald-ruhn, and Balmora. We’re headquarters, though.”

“I see. Wonder if I could work at one of those.” Not Ald-ruhn, unless absolutely necessary.

“Sure. Just let the Grandmaster know before you leave. Anyway, I’d better go.”

“Almsivi, Brother.” He spoke it out of habit before remembering where he was.

Dral, seeing his reddened face, laughed and raised his arms in mock prayer. “Almsivi in every hour, Associate! Walk with virtue!” Then he exited the trapdoor. Rels could still hear laughter echoing above. S’wit.

The next day, Rels left Vivec with the Grandmaster’s letter of transfer and a writ conveniently located in Balmora. The silt strider fee was a week’s food budget, but he gripped his coin purse to remind himself just how much gold Galvis Ulven’s life had been worth. Not much. But at least he wasn’t baiting fish with his own feet anymore.

The crooning silt strider came to a stop at a tall platform, and the caravaner waved him off. It looked like rain, and Rels’ stomach was growling. He didn’t know where the local guildhall was, so he stopped at the Council Club for lunch, the nearest place.

There was a noxious smell inside, and he reflexively covered his nose before noticing a Dunmer glaring at him through the hazy air.

“Never smelled skooma before, maggot?”

Rels decided he wasn’t that hungry yet. The place made his shoulders tense and his head dizzy, and he was relieved to walk back out into rain.

He walked along the river cutting through town until he ran across a guard. “I’m looking for the Morag Tong. Can you tell me where it is?”

“Ask someone who cares.”

His teeth clenched. So this was Balmora then.

An Orc, of all people, told him the way, and when he entered the building, he couldn’t help but relax in the quiet gloom of the assassins’ guild. Warm candlelight illuminated the wooden beams arching overhead, and he saw a secluded training area on his way upstairs to the local Master.

He found a silver-haired Dunmer woman receiving a bag of coin from a nervous-looking noble, who promptly left with his nose in the air, bumping into Rels as he passed. Delightful.

“What can I do for you, sera?” the woman asked politely.

Rels took out his letter of transfer, which was thankfully still dry. “My name is Rels Llethri, Master. I’m an Associate transferring from Vivec.”

She read the letter. “I see. Welcome, Associate Llethri. My name is Ethasi Rilvayn. Any relation to the Llethris in Ald-ruhn?”

“Yes.” No use hiding it now. “That is my hometown.”

“I was a Retainer of House Redoran a long time ago. Your family are good warriors. Let us hope those skills serve you here. We have a lot of writs to execute.”

He instantly liked her. “Actually, I have one here in Balmora already, a Khajiit named J’dazh?”

“Ah, that one.” She nodded. “A word of advice… Get a long-ranged weapon.”

Rels nodded back, suppressing a chill of fear. It was nothing he couldn’t handle if he was careful.

“Oh, and Master?” he said as he was leaving. “Where’s the best place to get lunch?”

“Try the Eight Plates. Just down the steps to the east.”

He left the guildhall and made for the Eight Plates, his stomach now rumbling. Inside, it seemed cozy and clean enough, though the patrons were all overdressed. He hoped that didn’t mean the food would be expensive.

“What do you need, muthsera?” asked a lavishly-dressed Dunmer woman standing behind the bar.

Rels took a stool and said, “How much for a large?”

“Large kwama eggs are five septims.” Ouch.

How many people would he have to kill to afford life in a Hlaalu town? Greedy bastards would wring him dry just like they did to Morrowind.

“All right. I’ll take one, and a greef.”

She lingered when she brought his lunch. “I haven’t seen you around before. I’m Dulnea. Are you here on business?”

“On business? What does that mean?” The huge egg cracked satisfyingly when he struck it with his spoon. He could buy two of these for the money in Ald-ruhn, but a meal was a meal.

“I take it you’re not Hlaalu, then. Just passing through?”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I’m Morag Tong.” It still felt bizarre to admit openly to being a murderer, but the writ in his pocket said otherwise. “I am new in Balmora, though. Is there anything I should know about the city?”

Dulnea seemed to cool at that. “I’d say it’s a typical Hlaalu town. We’re in the commercial district, and across the river are the neighborhoods. We have Imperial guilds, and the Camonna Tong. Best to avoid them.”

“I see. Any Khajiit come in here?”

She sighed. “Try the South Wall Cornerclub. Just keep your business out of mine.”

“I’ll do my best.” But if blood had to be spilled, he wouldn’t mind spilling it here. Might make life more interesting for the Empire’s toadies.

As he was leaving the Eight Plates, a man stood up from his table and began to follow him out. Rels waited until they were both outside to confront him.

“What do you want, Cyrodiil?” he asked the man.

It was an Imperial dressed in ridiculous finery, clearly unarmed and used to being protected. “Um, pardon my rudeness, sir, but I-- I couldn’t help but overhear...”

“Spit it out.”

The balding man glanced around, then led him into the narrow alley behind the building. “Well, you see, I have this business rival, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in...cutting a deal, so to speak. That is, I mean--”

Rels inhaled a steadying breath for patience. “You want me to kill him.”

“That’s right! Yes.” He looked relieved that Rels understood. “Yes. It’s easy money, I assure you. His protection is minimal, he lives in Caldera, very nearby… Very simple. So how about it? Perhaps...eight hundred septims?”

“That’s not how we do things, Outlander. You go to the guild master and make a request. You don’t ask the assassin directly.”

His nervous smile evaporated. “But one of my colleagues has solicited one of you before, said the dark elves can be very reasonable in Balmora--”

Reasonable. Corrupt, in other words. “I’m from Ald-ruhn, you s’wit. Heard of it, have you?”

“Oh. Mara.” Yes, he knew the council seat of House Redoran, the only House willing to fight the Imperial invasion to the death before the treaty. “I’m sorry. I’ll just let you get on with it, then.”

“The Morag Tong doesn’t do politics. You go talk to the master, or you kill the n’wah yourself if she says no.”

The man walked away. Rels doubted he would listen. In any case, he had a bow to purchase. 

As he wandered around the commercial district in search of a smithy, ice began to form in the pit of his gut. But he couldn’t figure out why.


	6. Gilyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to aliensandcats for helping me plan this stage of my story! Go check out their works!

The cliff racer tumbled to the ground, impaled by an arrow. It was the fifth one Rels had felled today, and he was beginning to feel confident with his new bow. He made his way back to Balmora. It was growing dark outside.

The South Wall Cornerclub was crowded, more so than the Eight Plates. The dinner he ordered was cheap, and patrons were already drunk. He counted four Khajiit, plus the one loitering in the entryway upstairs. This was probably the right spot. 

“Another mazte, sera?” asked the publican, an Imperial.

“No thanks, Bacola.” Rels was still watching the patrons from his small table, but hadn’t found any hints about his mark yet. He might have to come back the next day, just to make himself a more familiar face.

Then he heard it. 

“How’s J’dazh doing after...you know?” A table of Dunmer were talking in low voices next to his.

“Actually, I’d like a greef next, thanks,” Rels said to Bacola before he could turn away. He handed over a few drakes and then pretended to adjust the straps on his bracer to listen.

“He’s as well as can be expected, I think. Poor thing.” 

“Isn’t he scared? To be coming out in public like this?”

The table looked over at a Khajiit sitting at the bar, his tail brushing the floor in sluggish sweeps. 

“Who knows how those cats think, eh? If my wife got knifed in an alley, I’d skip town.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“Nope.”

The conversation moved on. Rels shifted in his chair to lean against the wall, giving him a better view of the bar. J’dazh was staring blankly at the shelves of bottles lining the opposite wall. So his wife had been murdered recently. Rels wondered if that had been Morag Tong too.

He went outside to wait for his mark after a while, partly to avoid suspicion, and partly to clear his head. The streets were dark this side of the river, the South Wall Cornerclub casting the only lantern light on the dirty cobblestones. Rels wiped the sweat off his forehead. Balmora was humid, unlike breezy Vivec. He wasn’t used to it.

To his left he saw a balcony, and climbed the stairs to have a look. It was somebody’s house, but no guards patrolled this side of town, and the house was silent. He settled into a shadowy corner and waited, eyes fixed on the Cornerclub exit below.

The cold thrill in his stomach was more familiar than he wanted to admit. Even in the dead night air, his skin hummed with anticipation. At some point, that Khajiit would open the door, and Rels would have to act.

What was the worst that could happen?

J’dazh could kill him first. He would die in a city of strangers, probably be taken to the temple to be made into ash...but who would come find him there? Everyone, Master Rilvayn, the Grandmaster, his father, Raril… They would all assume he died because of his own idiocy. And they would be right.

He hadn’t even bought that round at the Black Shalk like he’d wanted to.

His insides were shaking. He couldn’t break down now. He had a writ to execute. He had a plan. Mephala had a plan, if he or she had cared to listen. He was a Redoran by birth, and b’vehk he would die a Redoran too. If only his hands would hold his bow steady.

J’dazh opened the door.

Nerves singing, Rels nocked an arrow and aimed. J’dazh’s ear perked in his direction, and the cat bounded straight up the road. Before the arrow even glanced off a wall, his tail was whipping around a corner into total blackness. He was gone.

Rels dragged a hand down his sweaty face.

He made it all the way back to the guild quarters, only to find every bed was already claimed. The only empty one had a set of fancy clothes lying on top.

“Hey,” a voice said behind him. Rels turned and saw a male Dunmer about ten years older than him, with a mohawk and long sideburns. It was a style that would have stood out in Redoran territory. “You the new transfer? Name’s Gilyan. White Thrall.”

“Rels. Associate.”

“Heard good things about you. You can take that bed if you want. Technically, it belongs to Methas, but his Highness doesn’t like to sleep with us commoners.”

“He won’t mind?” Rels began unlacing his armor and draping it over the chest to air out.

Gilyan folded his arms and leaned on the bed frame beside him. “Nah, don’t worry about it. What had you out so late, anyway? A writ?”

“Well...” Great first impression, Rels. “I had to kill a Khajiit, but he got away.”

But instead of laughing, Gilyan looked impressed. “A Khajiit? That’s not a beginner job. The Master must love you. Or hate you. I didn’t get one of those til I was Thrall, at least.”

“He heard my bow and ran off.”

“That’s a shame. He’ll be harder to track down now, at least for a while.” He yawned and began taking off his boots. “Say, why don’t you shadow me tomorrow? Got a writ for an Orc up the road. I’ll give you some tips if you want.”

“...That would be great.” Was every assassin this friendly? Even the Grandmaster had seemed caring, in his way. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Good. We’ll leave first thing.”

Rels settled into the bed, looking forward to the diversion despite himself. A day away from the pressure would be nice. But he couldn’t let himself make friends here. Nobody in Vivec had sounded like the assassin he was after, but he couldn’t rule out Gilyan just yet.

“Always try to get them sleeping, if you can,” Gilyan explained after they left the northern gates the next morning. “Easiest is to hop in the window, cover their mouth, and slit the throat facing away from you. Then you can hop back out and get your payment, ten minutes tops. No stains, no screams, easy work.”

Rels bit his tongue to distance himself from the sick feeling in his stomach. The sooner he could get revenge, the sooner he could leave this disgusting profession behind.

“Khajiit are a bit different. Poison dart works best. Harder to hear, and you don’t have to chase them down. Let ‘em scurry off, and watch the magic happen.” Gilyan chuckled. “One time I nailed one from the guild roof! Lucky shot. Didn’t even have to leave the building.”

“Didn’t you have to turn in your writ to the guard?”

“Ha! This ain’t Vivec, kid. Only the Temple and Redoran care about stuff like that. Here? Long as they’re dead, you’re in the clear. You go over to Sadrith Mora, they even let you kill bystanders. It’s a little much for me. I like working in my hometown.”

“Have you worked in Ald-ruhn before?” It wouldn’t sound suspicious. It was relevant. Anyone might ask it.

Gilyan shrugged and adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “We all move around sometimes. I didn’t like it out there. Awful weather. People are uptight. Couldn’t sneak up on anybody on account of the rules.”

“The rules?”

“Yeah. A writ’s like a duel in Redoran country. You don’t get paid if you don’t announce the kill to their face. That way they get a chance to defend themselves.”

Something tugged at Rels’ heart. If he’d just been a little bit stronger that day… “I guess that’s the only way they’re allowed to operate there,” he said quietly.

“No offense, Rels, but I’ll take Balmora any day. Just do it and done.” He made a squelching noise with his mouth and mimed cutting his own throat.

“Isn’t that...risky?” They were coming up on a town now. Rels could see the outlandish Imperial architecture just over the hill.

“Risky? For who? You wanna pick fights you can’t win?”

According to the sign, they were now in Caldera. An Imperial guard standing watch put Rels on edge, but he continued anyway. “I don’t mean that… I mean, if we don’t take credit, what if someone else does? It could cause bigger problems.”

Gilyan sighed good-naturedly. “You’re a Vivec transfer, all right. Sound just like the Grandmaster.” Then he pulled a masked helmet out of his pack and began strapping it on. “Let me guess, he talked your ear off about the Webspinner?”

Rels was surprised to feel the burn of indignation in his gut. Could it be because he’d known the presence of Mephala, in those dark moments alone? Unless it had just been his imagination. It couldn’t have anything to do with Eno Hlaalu. He was sure of that.

“Yeah, he does that,” Gilyan went on. “All right, we’re here. Just down this alley. Stay behind me in case he’s outside.”

Rels quickly obeyed, watching Gilyan continue forward on tiptoe. They were approaching a small house behind the tavern. It was made of square stone in the Imperial style, and a thin stream of smoke issued from the chimney. Someone must be home.

Even though it was broad daylight, Gilyan almost disappeared into the stark shadows cast by the walls, slipping behind the house. Rels wasn’t sure how far he should stay, so he stuck close to the rear of the tavern. A few minutes later, there was a faint grunt and clattering coming from inside the house, and then the front door opened.

It was Gilyan, bloody dagger in hand. “Come in, quick. Gotta show you something.”

Rels hurried inside, and immediately regretted it. The Orc was still trembling on the dirt floor. Dark blood was pooling from a jagged gash in his neck and slowly seeping into the dust. The scent of iron invaded every corner of the tiny room, making Rels acutely aware of the air in his lungs. A half-cooked stew bubbled in a pot over a pile of burning...shoes? He coughed as he recognized the smell of burning leather underneath the blood.

“See the edge of this blade? You need a jagged edge to cut through Orc skin, see? It takes a kind of sawing motion, which is where you get all the blood. But look here,” Gilyan said. Rels tore his eyes away from the burning shoes to look back at the murder. “No blood on me. That’s because when I snuck in the window there, his back was facing me. Pointed the veins in the other direction, see?”

Rels nodded, feeling slightly dizzy. The Orc’s arm hadn’t stopped twitching yet. When would it stop? “Do you think he knew why you came?”

Gilyan shrugged. He was wiping his dagger on a ragged piece of cloth. “Probably. Come on, let’s get out of here.”


	7. Reveal

When Rels returned to the guildhall a few days later, after seeing neither hide nor hair of J’dazh all day, the entire guild was sitting in the dining area on the ground floor. He didn’t know everyone yet, so he thought it was a good time to try and rule some of them out of his search. They were eating and drinking happily, and Gilyan reached behind him to pull up an empty chair so Rels could sit at the corner of his table.

“Any luck today, Associate?” Gilyan asked. Everyone looked at him.

“Um, no, not yet. What are we drinking?”

Gilyan slapped the table and laughed. “Balyn, get this kid a sujamma! He’s had a hard day chasing cats.”

Balyn, a thin-faced Dunmer with spiky hair, was sitting next to them. “Comin’ right up.” He poured Rels a glass before he could protest. “You new here? I’ve seen you around. Since that fetcher won’t introduce us, I’m Balyn. White Thrall.”

Rels took the sujamma and forced a smile to his face. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rels.”

An older Dunmer with a goatee and fine clothing nodded at him from the other end of the table. “Welcome to the family, so to speak. I’m Methas Hlaalu, Thinker of the Morag Tong, at your service. I hear you’ve been sharing my bed!”

Rels cringed at the unfortunate phrasing as the others cackled around him.

“Don’t be crass, you all,” chided Master Rilvayn, who sat next to Methas. She then briefly introduced Rels to the other table, but as they were either female or Redguard, he paid them only polite nods before turning his attention back to the table of Dunmer suspects. She continued to Methas, “Rels came up from Vivec a week ago.”

Methas smiled but didn’t seem interested in the change of topic. “Yes, I don’t blame him. My cousin can be...a little overzealous at times. Much better here at home, I must say.”

“Why did you get pulled from Ald-ruhn, again?” asked Gilyan, who seemed to be drinking faster than the rest of the table. Rels gulped and grabbed his glass of sujamma to take a sip. It tasted awful, but he couldn’t afford to look too interested.

“Oh, you know, once you’ve done a big job in a place, word gets around,” said Methas, waving his glass. “Especially in Ald-ruhn. They barely tolerate us up North. I was glad to leave, to be quite honest.”

“I can’t stand it out there in the Ashlands,” said Balyn. Rels looked over. Had they all worked in Ald-ruhn before?

Taking another sip, he suppressed a shudder. Gilyan, Methas, and Balyn were all possible. He was very likely going to kill one of them. The glass was slippery in his hands, so he gripped it tighter. The sujamma mixed with wriggling nerves in his stomach as he listened as silently as possible.

Master Rilvayn was absentmindedly tracing her finger around the mouth of her glass. “The climate I can handle, but Redoran politics weren’t for me. I’ll take Hlaalu backstabbing over Redoran grandstanding any day.”

“Too right!” barked Methas. “And grandstanding is all it is!”

“They don’t know the value of a good backstabbing,” Gilyan slurred. 

Rels tried to stare at his drink instead of saying something.

“They’re just cowards like the rest of us,” Balyn said. “Or else why even hire us in the first place?”

Rels could feel his temples pounding as he clenched his teeth, focusing on his breathing. Any minute now, and it could come out. The proof he needed to move forward.

Master Rilvayn chuckled. “Look at our poor Associate!” Rels jumped. “Stoic as the mountain.”

“Aw, almost forgot you were Redoran, Rels!” said Gilyan, smacking his hand onto Rels’ shoulder, making him jump again. The colors in the room grew sharper. He thought he could see every pore on every face as the world shrank down to this table, this conversation.

“That makes you the smartest of your kin, young Associate!” Methas raised his glass to him and drank. A few drops ran down his beard. “Assassin’s work is honest work. You come, you kill, and nobody’s fooled. You should see the cowards I met from Redoran! Frauds, I tell you.”

He couldn’t help it. “Cowards?” Rels asked. His heart was pounding, making his head throb. His throat was dry, and the drink didn’t help.

“Now I don’t want to cause any offense… Putting aside my own personal biases...” Methas flourished his other hand.

Balyn gave a loud cough that sounded like “Guarshit!” Gilyan started giggling.

Methas continued as though there had been no interruption. “But wouldn’t you know, I was on duty outside Ald-ruhn, just a few months ago, about to execute some big name or another. I thought I was in for a fight, but my target’s bodyguard just turned around and ran!” Rels went numb. “Easiest writ I’ve ever had.”

Everyone was looking at him for his reaction. He forced his mouth to work. “Unbelievable.”

“Well, now you know,” said Methas grandly. “Don’t take it so hard, though. You made the right decision to join the Morag Tong.”

The conversation moved on.

Rels lay in bed late at night, listening to the soft intakes of breath on either side of him. His eyes were open, fixed on the foot of the shadowy cabinet across the room. Nobody was watching, but he parted his lips to breathe as silently as possible. 

He had a name now. Methas Hlaalu.

A high-ranking assassin, a noble of a Great House, and the Grandmaster’s cousin, of all people. Rels would be lucky to survive, let alone escape to his clan. Could he even stay in Ald-ruhn after that? Might he be sent to the ancestral home in Ald Iuval on the mainland to guard the docks? Even that seemed better than staying in the Morag Tong. 

He wasn’t cut out for this. But he would have to pretend. 

First, he had a Khajiit to execute, and he needed to get better. In the meantime, he could keep one eye on Methas, learn his habits. Maybe there was a time he was vulnerable...

Rels swallowed hard. Murder for pay was hard enough. Murder for murder felt different. He tried to remember the words his father had said: Deed above kin. Honor is proven, not given. Hearth, warden. The words spun around his head now. He tried to line them up, find some way to spell out his path. It wasn’t Methas’ fault Rels had been expelled, but this deed of vengeance could bring him back.

His chest ached with longing. Memories of home swam before him and he blinked back tears. The blacksmith giving him her scarf during an ash storm. Hunting cliff racers with his friends, armed only with darts. Taking history lessons in the Redoran Council Hall. Taking his oath as Lawman. It all seemed to lead up to his failure.

He pushed it all to the side, turning over in bed.

Methas’ bed. 

He hoped Mephala enjoyed the irony, at least.

It was another week later. He’d spent several afternoons with Gilyan, sneaking up on Kagouti in broad daylight to practice stealth. He learned the importance of staying downwind and stepping lightly, since darkness was a luxury for an assassin. Any brute could overpower a victim in the dead of night with a knife or a rope, but Morag Tong writs could take him into the middle of a fortress, or to a crowded square. If the assassin was killed on the job, the writ was void. He couldn’t rely on shadows alone.

Gilyan seemed like a twisted version of someone Rels would’ve considered a friend back home. But he supposed the Morag Tong was like a twisted version of a normal guild, and Rels was twisting himself as best he could, until things could go back to normal. 

When he sat perched on a rooftop at dusk, he knew his bow wouldn’t make any noise. He had his Recall potion just in case, but didn’t think he’d need it.

From the corner of the lens in his masked helmet, he spotted Methas walking down the steps towards the river. He was unarmored, strolling casually like any other citizen. A guard nodded at him as he passed by. Methas walked across the northern bridge and stopped at the house directly ahead. He knocked on the door and was let in a few seconds later.

Rels controlled his breathing. He wasn’t here for Methas. He was looking for J’dazh tonight.

Minutes crept by. His feet grew sore from the squatting position, and he tried to flex his toes as quietly as possible. Nobody looked up at him.

The sun was completely gone when Methas reappeared in the doorway, followed by Balyn. They walked across the bridge and up the steps towards the guildhall together, chatting quietly about something. It was too low to hear. Methas was talking with his hands, an odd foreign habit. Perhaps he’d spent time in Cyrodiil. Rels watched them go.

A few minutes later, none other than J’dazh walked around a corner, out into the open. The tufts of fur on the tips of his ears were distinctive, and he wore the same clothes as on the first day. 

Rels made no noise as he pulled back his poisoned arrow. J’dazh was walking. It was difficult to aim. 

As soon as he stopped to look around, Rels let his arrow fly. It buried itself into his rib cage, and he let out a strangled yowl.

J’dazh stumbled, tried to pull out the arrow, twitched violently, and staggered several paces before slumping to the ground.

Rels felt a flicker of satisfaction before squashing it down. That death looked painful. He might not even be dead yet, if the poison took its time. Still, his writ was finally completed. He would just have to stop thinking about it.

“Well done,” said Master Rilvayn when he reported to her. “You’ve trained hard, and it shows. Here’s your payment of five hundred, and the Grandmaster informed me in his letter that if you survived this writ, you were to be named Blind Thrall. So, congratulations.”

Rels blinked.


	8. Barasu Morvayn

Rels had so much gold that he decided to spend some, just to lighten his bag. He could afford a full set of new netch leather armor made just for him. He eyed the bonemold pieces on the shelf while he was being fitted, but no amount of greasing would make those move as silently as he needed.

When he looked in the mirror, he looked...professional. Like just another assassin. A scarf covered his lower face, and his eyes were obscured by goggles.

“Will you be upgrading your weapon as well, sir?” asked the Bosmer smith.

Rels looked at his steel shortsword, the cheapest sword in his family’s armory, the only one he’d been allowed to take. By now it was the only thing he had left of home.

“No, but I’d like to look at your daggers while I’m here.”

There were steel, iron, silver, even a few enchanted daggers for sale, and he was amazed to find that he could afford any he wanted. The silver one enchanted with poison was tempting. 

But would he need it, once he left the Morag Tong? It was useless for hunting, as it would poison the meat, and enchanted items were an investment. If he killed Methas quickly enough, he might not need to do many more writs at all.

He bought a plain silver dagger instead.

When he returned to the guildhall, Gilyan was doing stretches in the training area. Master Rilvayn sat in a nearby chair, reading a book from the shelf.

“Hey, Blind Thrall!” said Gilyan. “Ready to spar?”

“Sure,” said Rels. “What are we doing today?”

Master Rilvayn smiled. “I’ve got a few ideas you should show him, White Thrall.” She pointed at some text in her book. “The strangle-and-slash technique is probably at his level.” Rels forced his face to stay passive. This was for a greater purpose. Enough mazte, and he could forget all about this someday.

“You got it, boss!” Gilyan chirped. “C’mere, put your weapons down and I’ll show you what that looks like.” He motioned for Rels to stand in front of him.

Rels swallowed and complied. He knew he’d be fine, but… 

Gilyan moved behind him and became utterly silent. Rels tensed. Then a pair of gloved hands grasped his throat and he was shoved forward. Suddenly unable to breathe, and completely off balance, he was driven into the paper room divider separating the training area from the entry hall. Gilyan bashed his head into the barrier several times, pulled him back, and dragged the edge of his hand across Rels’ exposed jugular. Then he let go, and Rels failed to catch himself before landing hard on his behind on the matted floor, coughing.

“You all right?”

Rels was still coughing, and forced himself to nod as tears welled up in his eyes. His heart was pounding, and his throat hurt where he rubbed it. At least it was over. He stood up and blinked away the wetness.

“See, normally, I’d do that against a solid wall, and it would hurt a lot more. Supposed to make you go unconscious, if you do it right. The strangling part doesn’t help with killing, but it puts him on the defense, and you get the upper hand. It was real easy to make you go forward that way, cause your body already wanted to get away, see? And then the wall stuns you, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to slit your throat after that. You gotta be fast there, though, cause you start out with both hands on his neck, but then you’ve got to reach for your dagger before he comes around. Ready to try it on me?”

“All right,” Rels croaked. He rubbed his throat one more time, and then stood behind Gilyan. He crept forward.

“I can hear you,” said Master Rilvayn from her chair. “Start again.”

When training was over, and Gilyan left for dinner, Master Rilvayn approached him. “I have a writ that I think you should be the one to execute.” She handed him a writ.

“Okay,” Rels said. “Why should it be me?” His heart sank. He’d been hoping to avoid taking a writ as long as he could. He unrolled it and saw the name: Barasu Morvayn.

Where did he know that name?

“Barasu Morvayn has been in Balmora for several months, trading in enchantments. Someone in House Telvanni requires her to be executed, and you are going to carry it out.”

Enchantments… It came to him then. Barasu Morvayn worked Under Skar in Ald-ruhn. His parents had hired her several times. She’d once offered to train Rels in enchanting if he ever showed any aptitude for it, which he never did. He remembered her face clearly now. She’d been kind.

“Yes, I thought you might know her,” said Master Rilvayn, seeing his expression change. “There comes a time in an assassin’s life, when he or she is asked to execute someone they know. I wanted to give you that opportunity.”

He looked back up. “Opportunity?”

Her face was solemn. “Yes. Opportunity. You’ll understand when you’re done. Slay her honorably.”

“...Yes, Master.”

It was early morning, outside the Mages’ Guild. The fog was just starting to lift, and the shops had yet to open. Rels’ blood felt thicker as his heart pumped a steady rhythm in his throat. His dagger was drawn, a cloth wrapped around the hilt to catch blood.

He was waiting in the alley, just out of sight. It was the spot he’d staked out the day before, and if Barasu Morvayn followed the same schedule today, she would pass by his corner into view. He wanted it to be over as quickly as possible. Just a single slash from behind. The thought of being recognized turned his stomach to ash.

He heard the door of the Mages’ Guild open. A few seconds later, Barasu appeared in the alley. Her face looked exactly as he’d remembered.

Rels sprang up behind her, reaching for her head so he could slit her throat. She heard him. Darting out of the way, she pointed one of her rings at him. In a rush of sparks, he felt his limbs grow heavy, as though stones were tied to them. He tried with all his might to move, but it was so...heavy…

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” she demanded. Her voice rang in the still morning air, and she showed no signs of fear. Redoran pride.

Rels had no choice but to answer. “You’ve been marked for execution by the—rgh!—Morag Tong.” He tried to lift his foot while speaking, but it felt glued to the ground. 

She raised her chin. “Is that so? I’ll take care of you, scum.” Then to Rels’ horror, she pulled out a blade, muttered a spell, and it transformed into a glowing longsword with otherworldly designs. He put all of his strength into lifting his leg, and began to pant in exertion. It didn’t matter if she knew him now, because she was going to cut him apart.

She swung the sword at him, and he reeled backward, nearly falling over. He blocked her next swing with his dagger. She was physically weak, and untrained in melee combat. But she could move, and he couldn’t.

It was a struggle to parry her wild swings with just a dagger, and in a moment of distraction, he left an opening. She slashed downward at his face, and the tip of the sword cut through his scarf to open a gash on his cheek.

Rels cried out in pain and shock. Blood was dribbling into his mouth, and he spat it out. His legs were finally beginning to move, however, and he backed away into the alley.

Like a madwoman, she charged at him, emboldened by his injury and the strength of her weapon. He stumbled out of the way and hugged her shoulders from behind. Using her forward momentum to his advantage, the silver dagger cut deep into her throat. Her war shout became a gurgle, and the glowing longsword clattered onto the pavestones.

They both dropped to the ground. Rels knelt with a hand against the wall, controlling his breathing. Barasu’s wet gasps and spasms distracted him from the searing pain in his face, but he wished she would die faster. He tried to touch his cheek, but it stung too badly. He spat out more blood and tried to stand. He felt woozy.

Not a single guard stopped him on his way back.

Methas had just left the guildhall, and saw him limping. “Blind Thrall! By the gods, what’s happened to you?”

Methas was the last person Rels wanted to see, but he let himself be led inside, where he fell into a chair. “I’m fine,” he sputtered through the cut in his upper lip. He peeled off his scarf, wincing as it stuck to the gash. Methas walked off and returned with Master Rilvayn.

“Oh dear, that is a nasty cut,” she said quietly, lifting up his chin to see it better. “Fetch me a healing potion.” Methas took a small bottle from the training area and handed it to her, then left.

She popped open the bottle and gave it to Rels, who tipped it into the undamaged side of his mouth. He could only take tiny sips, and opening and closing his mouth to drink was excruciating. “Good,” she said. “You should be better in just a few days. It’ll scar, but that will be a lesson to you. Is Barasu Morvayn dead, then?”

Rels nodded. Yes, he’d successfully murdered a woman who’d been nothing but kind to him when he was younger. He didn’t know what sort of opportunity that had been.

Though he’d only been awake for a couple of hours, he dragged himself back into bed upstairs. Everyone was up and about by now, so he had the room to himself. He could only lie on his back without disturbing his wound, so he stared at the ceiling, trying not to think. Trying not to feel. 

Without warning, something in his chest shattered and his eyes burned with hot tears. 

He didn’t want to do this anymore.


	9. Ahnassi

Rels looked at his reflection in the glass, and brought a hand up to his face. He gingerly touched the wound, which split his upper lip and ran up his cheekbone, just missing his eye. He’d been lucky there. He could have been blinded. 

Something burned in his gut. He wasn’t lucky. The half-formed scar was still sore, and he’d never look the same again. People who looked at him would know this about him. Even after he went back, he would still carry the mark of killing another Redoran. Both marks. He inspected the brand of expulsion on the back of his hand. It looked clean and shiny, the beetle design less distinct than it had been at first. He could still overcome that scar. He could still earn his way back. But the one on his face? There was no excuse for that. The sack of drakes in his bag was his confession. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to find Methas and punch him in the jaw.

He had to do better than that, though. He had to kill him. And he couldn’t be found out. His stomach twisted.

It was still difficult to eat without pain. He sat sullenly at the table downstairs, nursing a bowl of saltrice porridge as life went on around him. Gilyan and Balyn had teased him some, but when he said nothing in response, they let it go.

Whenever Methas walked past, Rels took note of the time. Methas had a schedule. He rarely executed writs, but spent much of his day socializing. Most of his meals were eaten at the Eight Plates, and he had his own room in the Hlaalu Council Manor next door where he slept. He didn’t hurt for money. It irked Rels that Methas didn’t need to work for his place, just because of his blood. He seemed the opposite of Eno Hlaalu in attitude and work ethic. Rels had always known that he couldn’t take status for granted, even though his family had members on the Council. Rels himself had had to work his way up to Lawman, and he was willing to start from the bottom again if he had to. Deed over kin. This would be his deed.

Once Methas had become predictable, Rels lay awake in bed one night until everyone else was asleep. Using the sound of Balyn’s snores as cover, he pulled off his blanket and crept downstairs. 

Here it was silent. The smell of snuffed candles filled the air. Everything was black.

He navigated to the corner, behind a desk, and sat on the floor. The cool, hard tile under his legs centered him, and he closed his eyes.

The sound of his own breath was deafening, no matter how hard he trained it to be silent. In his focus, his body began to hum. Then it faded away, until he was a pair of closed eyes and a gust of breath. The blackness became liquid, and rushed over him like a tidal wave, drowning every crevice. He was nothing.

Thank you.

He waited.

Silence.

How do I do it?

A longer silence.

A thin white shape flashed in his mind, and was gone.

He felt a flicker of euphoria in his chest. Had he been answered? Was this what he needed? His heart chimed in excitement, and his body slowly returned. When his lip stung, he realized he was smiling. How long had it been?

It was the next day. When his eyes opened to the new morning, he glanced around the room, seeking out the white shape. Nothing resembled it, so he got dressed and plodded downstairs in silence. The others had learned he wasn’t in the mood for talk since his last writ, so they left him in peace. 

It was in the Eight Plates, where he went for breakfast, that he saw something. Behind the bar, lined up nicely, were a dozen bottles of alcohol. Some of them were nearly white, and some of them were the same thin shape he was looking for. So he needed a bottle of something. When he finished his kwama egg, he left for the alchemist’s shop.

Nalcarya, the Altmer alchemist, tightened her mouth at him in lieu of a greeting. He’d bought J’dazh’s poison from her. He nodded once in response, and tried to ignore how her golden lip curled at the sight of his new scar. That was something he’d have to get used to.

“Is there anything I can assist you with?” Her arched tone seemed to be pushing him back out the door.

“Just looking.” He had business here, and she could wait until he was done.

The shelves were laden with perhaps hundreds of bottles, everything from rustic flasks to exquisite vials with only a few drops inside. A few of them were white, but somehow Rels knew he wouldn’t find what he was looking for here.

He tried the pawnshop, then Ra’virr, but found nothing. He would have to travel.

He went south.

As if in a trance, he let his feet carry him along the river, across a rickety bridge, and through the valley for miles. At a fork in the road, he stopped, listened, and turned south again. As the Sun traced its path across the sky, Rels wondered where he was going. 

Surely it was a waste of time to walk out of Balmora, away from Methas, and take whichever path felt right until he either ran out of road or collapsed of exhaustion. What kind of arrogant fool was he to entertain the notion that Mephala had spoken to him? He was a nobody, less than a speck of dirt to a Daedra Lord. This must be cowardice. He was procrastinating, hoping something would attack him on the road, or that he would just keep walking right into the Inner Sea. 

It was late afternoon when he came upon another fork in the road, and a signpost. He squinted up at it, trying to interpret the Cyrodilic lettering. He saw the word “Vivec” pointing south, and two words that must be “Seyda Neen.” Pointing east, the sign was unreadable to him. Whatever this place was, he couldn’t recognize the name. The signs were there for outlanders to use—f’lah like Rels never needed them.

He decided he might as well head east. Soon he came upon an Imperial settlement, with a fort much like the one outside Ald-ruhn. He stopped a Cyrodiil guard decked in shining steel plate.

“Excuse me, what town is this?”

The guard’s face was weathered but pleasant. “You’re in Pelagiad, Dunmer. Can I help you find anything?”

Rels was taken aback. “Pelagiad?” He’d never heard of the place.

“That’s right. If you need a tavern, it’s just over there.” He pointed at a building. Rels looked over at it, and then he remembered he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was as good a place as any. Some food would give him the energy to keep searching.

He ordered some bread with scrib jelly, and considered the row of drinks on the shelf behind the bar. He must be going crazy, so a bit of drink couldn’t hurt. The blood money in his bag was begging to be wasted. He got a bottle of the most expensive thing: Cyrodilic Brandy.

As he sniffed his cup, he realized he recognized the scent. This was the same drink he’d spilled all over the bar at the Black Shalk Cornerclub back in Vivec. He took a sip. It tasted...different. But good. Maybe the best thing the Imperials had brought with them. Worth the hundred drakes for someone like him with nothing else to spend it on, anyway. It felt good to sit in a tavern without a writ hanging over his head for once.

He was on his third cup when a Khajiit in purple robes sat down next to him. She looked uncomfortable. Her topaz eyes darted back and forth, first at him, then behind her, then to the other side, then back at him, then down. Her whiskers twitched.

The brandy relaxed Rels enough to wonder about her. “What’s wrong?”

She looked him in the face then, ears flat. “Ahnassi is fine. It is nothing.” She wrung her paws together and looked away.

Rels shrugged and went back to his drink. He’d met very few Khajiit, and all of them were strange.

“Prrr, Ahnassi wonders...if you would help her with something.”

“What is it?” She was eyeing his scar and his weapon. Rels thought he had an idea of what sort of help she wanted. There was always something.

Ahnassi’s eyes grew wide and she whispered, “The Camonna Tong will not let Ahnassi leave this place. Ahnassi has business in the city, but cannot leave without being attacked. Will you follow Ahnassi and kill the one who comes? You will have a reward, and Ahnassi’s friendship.”

Rels sighed. “Sure. When?”

“Anytime you are ready.”

He looked at his unfinished bottle of brandy. He had a chance to help someone, and that seemed more important than drinking. “Let’s go, then.”

Ahnassi left first, and Rels gave her a few seconds’ head start. When he walked outside, things looked quiet. Whoever was watching her was staying hidden. He felt a warm nostalgia following the Khajiit down the road out of Pelagiad. For once, he was guarding someone instead of stalking them.

And he wouldn’t run away this time.

They were both on edge as they walked down the road towards Vivec. Soon enough, a thug wielding a club came over the hill from the east, and Ahnassi shrieked.

“That is the one!”

The thug wore little armor over his black clothes but looked brawny. His snarling tattooed face turned towards Rels, spat on the ground, and back at Ahnassi.

“Thought you could get away, kitty cat? Now I’m just gonna kill your friend here too.” He ran at her then, club raised. Ahnassi cowered.

Rels pulled out his dagger and threw it. It landed in his back, and the thug jerked in pain. Rels advanced, now with the upper hand. When the thug turned around, Rels was already in front of him, and with a mighty swing lobbed the head off his shoulders with his sword.

The body tumbled down the grassy hill onto the road, followed by the head. 

Rels stared after it, too shocked to react. He hadn’t expected it to work that well. He pulled his dagger out of the back and began wiping it off before it dried.

“Ahnassi thanks you deeply for what you have done! You are a good friend to Ahnassi, a very good friend.”

“It’s no problem. I should probably go, though.”

Ahnassi reached into a deep pocket and said, “Take this before you go. Ahnassi hopes it will be of use, good friend.”

She pulled out a slim white bottle and handed to him. A delirious giggle escaped him. That was it.

“Thank you, Ahnassi. What is it?”

“It is a potion of Paralysis. Very expensive, very high quality. Only the best for my friends.”

Now he knew exactly what to do.


	10. Water

Rels made it back to Balmora late in the evening, covered in sweat and bone-tired. He let out a sigh of relief when he entered the guildhall, and dropped himself in a chair to rest in the soothing glow of the red candles. He needed water and sleep, and then he could begin his work. Unbuckling his bracers, he let his eyes wander the room. The Redguard he’d met briefly was writing something at his desk in the corner. Most were asleep.

Master Rilvayn came down the stairs, saw him, and came to sit across from him. Rels swallowed. He couldn’t think of any explanation for his trip, aside from needing to take a long walk. Somehow that didn’t seem convincing enough. But she didn’t ask where he went.

“How are you feeling, Blind Thrall?”

Rels stared at her. She looked calm as ever, unreadable. “I’m all right, Master.”

She poured them both glasses of water from a pitcher. “You don’t look all right. But I think you will be.” She took a sip of water. “You aren’t like some of our members, Rels. You’re more like me. You needed to learn the hard way.”

Rels took a long drink. He didn’t want to talk about this with her, or anyone. But he needed to know before he left. “What did you mean by ‘opportunity?’ What did I need to learn?”

“You needed to learn the difference between the Morag Tong and simple mercenaries. Mercenaries never need to kill anyone they don’t want to, but we don’t have that freedom. Sometimes we need to make peace with our guilt and move on.”

Rels said nothing.

She went on. “It doesn’t matter who you were before. It only matters what you do now.” She stared at him until he looked her in the eyes again. “We do this for Morrowind.”

“...I know, Master.” But surely they could carry on without him.

“It wasn’t easy for me at first. I learned under the Grandmaster. He’s killed many from his own clan, but he made an oath to protect our people, as we all did. We renew the oath with every writ we accept. And not many know this, but the Grandmaster is a priest of Mephala. He knows better than most of us the webs we weave by our actions. Once something is done, it’s done. Black Hands Mephala has already started working with it. We just need to learn to live with it, and carry out our duty.”

Rels’ mind went back to the potion in his pocket. What did that mean? Was it all a coincidence, or did Mephala really want him to kill Methas? To sabotage her own creation?

“He thinks highly of you, you know. The Grandmaster. I can tell.”

“Why?”

“Of that, I’m not sure. But you’re a good person. You understand the weight of your position, and you want to do well. Someday you might even be a Master.”

Rels lifted his glass again, but found it empty. He felt a different sort of guilt gnawing his stomach now. They liked him here. Even though he was scared, inexperienced, and disgusted by the work, they saw value in him. They told him he belonged.

But they were wrong about that. He was going to betray them. The enormity of his planned treachery opened up before his eyes. He was going to risk the wrath of House Hlaalu by killing one of their nobles without a writ. If he was found out, it would be House Redoran they attacked, not the Morag Tong. It was precisely the scenario he’d been told to prevent. It went against the entire foundation of the Morag Tong, the institution of Mephala. It went against the founding principles of the Dunmeri nation. And he was doing it all for himself. Why was Rels so important?

He thought of the Grandmaster Eno Hlaalu. The first person to give Rels a chance. He was going to disappoint him. 

But he had to do it. Or all of his work and pain would have been for nothing. 

He ignored the ache in his chest and told Master Rilvayn good night.

The wind was clean and cool tonight. A rare thing. Rels savored the breeze and took a deep breath through his scarf. He was squatting, hidden, behind the north wall, with a perfect view of the bridge. His bow was ready, his arrow spiked with the potion. Everything he owned was in his bag.

He was early. Methas wouldn’t be coming for another half hour or so, but like clockwork he would come. If conditions weren’t right this time, it would be simple enough to wait two days for another chance. No problem. It would all work out. He would be fine.

He tried to slow down his breathing. He pictured the black stillness of night when he prayed. It was probably silly. He could never be sure he had Mephala’s ear, but something, or someone, had guided him to the potion that day. It could have been Sheogorath. 

His mind was wandering. That wasn’t good. He was getting restless.

Ald-ruhn, nestled in the Ashlands. His people, living their honest lives. The Ghostfence, standing in the distance, a testament to the power of Lord Vivec. Skar, housing Llethri Manor. The narrow bridges that connected every door inside the giant crab. His House, his hearth, his clan. His oath.

The oath he’d broken.

Methas emerged.

Rels drew his bow before he was in hearing range, and aimed his shot over the bridge. Nobody was nearby right now. His heartbeat danced.

Methas was dressed in his usual expensive Western fashion, hair and beard immaculately groomed. For a brief second, Rels wondered if he ever got his smooth hands dirty on the job.

When he was mid-stride on the bridge, Rels released his shot. With a tiny “thunk” it buried itself into Methas’s side. 

Methas’ cry was cut short as the Paralysis took effect, and he tipped into the water with a splash.

Rels jerked to his feet with adrenaline, heart leaping into his throat. It took all of his willpower to stay where he was and watch rather than move in to finish him off. He watched the shadowed water and held his breath.

The splash became waves, then the waves became ripples. Then it was still. He didn’t know how long the potion might last. Methas had been crying out when he fell in, so his mouth must have stayed open in the river. How many breaths of water did it take to drown?

The water stayed still.

As he realized Methas was dead for certain, his heartbeat didn’t slow. It grew faster. His breathing became shallower. The cool evening air was frigid. He closed his eyes to stop feeling light-headed. It didn’t work. He sat on the hard ground and hugged his knees, eyes still shut.

Why did it feel as though he’d been the one shot?

What was wrong with him?

Why did this feel worse than his very first writ on Drosa Farano?

He was shaking. The spinning feeling wound its way down to his gut, and he ripped off his scarf to vomit into the grass.

Methas was dead.

Rels was free. It was time to leave the Morag Tong and return to House Redoran. Before anyone investigated the corpse. Hopefully it would float away unnoticed. Maybe a Nix-Hound would get it. Maybe it would wash up downstream and some cliff racers would pick it clean. Rels was fine. He was safe. He could go home now.

It was finally time to move on.

He stumbled to his feet, still shaking, and followed the road north to Ald-ruhn.


	11. Ald-ruhn

As the road grew dustier, Rels knew he was nearing home. Red Mountain loomed in the distance, illuminated by the dawn. Soon he would round a corner and enter the Ashlands. Ald-ruhn was waiting for him.

He felt untethered. If he stopped walking, he might be carried off by the wind. He’d long since run out of energy on the long journey, but he couldn’t rest. He needed to get there as soon as possible. Sitting in the back of his mind, behind a thin screen, was the image of Methas falling into the river. It was pushing its way to the forefront, but he kept it back. He had to sever his mind from his body in the effort, but he did it. It only peeked around the edge of the screen every few seconds. Eventually, once he was back in Llethri Manor, in the private quarters, he would have so much greef that Methas would drown and die for good.

The road turned, and the Ald-ruhn guard towers greeted him. The pointed obelisk off to the side said “Welcome.” It was the first time he’d paid it any attention. The practical Redoran architecture flooded his view, and the people walking about were all faces he knew. It was like a dream. It was many of his dreams.

“What’s your business in Ald-ruhn?” asked a fully armored guard. But Rels knew that voice.

“Romavel?” Rels took off his helmet, an ingrained Redoran custom. They’d trained together under the guard captain, had even gone on escort missions together.

Romavel took off his helmet too, revealing a sweaty but familiar face. “Llethri? Didn’t know if you were still alive. What are you doing back?”

“I had to avenge Councilman Sarethi, and I’m back now.”

He raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them a moment later. “You avenged Councilman Sarethi? ...You mean you killed a Morag Tong assassin? How did you do that?”

Rels paused and swallowed. His throat itched. Romavel didn’t look impressed. “I mean… They asked me to join, so I said yes. Then I found him, killed him, and came here.”

“You...” He looked lost for words. “...You look rough. How many people did you have to kill to get to that point?”

Rels’ heart beat in his throat. Jaw clenching, he replied, “Look, I only did it to get back into Redoran. This is where I belong.” His writs had been legal, and they had nothing to do with it. The only wrong thing he’d done was… It wasn’t wrong.

“Llethri.” He looked...repulsed? “There’s only one way I know how to say this… You’re a coward and a traitor. Maybe House Hlaalu would take you, but you shouldn’t be here. I think you should leave.” In a mortal insult, he dropped his hand to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Rage like lava rose up inside Rels. Didn’t he know what he’d had been through? To lump him together with— And to threaten him with force in his own home— Turning him away at the gate—

It took everything he had left to keep his arms still. His fists clenched painfully to keep from drawing his weapon on his former friend.

“Let me in.” Someone else might listen to him.

“No.”

An ash storm was starting up. People started moving indoors. Romavel and Rels stared at each other, unmoving.

“At least let me into the cornerclub.”

“You’re an outlaw. Turn around.” Another guard noticed them and was approaching. Rels had no choice. He turned around.

The hot ash burned his skin. He put his helmet back on and trod out into the Ashlands to find a spot protected from the wind. He needed to think.

The rage in his chest was turning brittle. He sped up. He needed to sit down before his heart split open. There was a corner surrounded by tall stone columns, where a couple of Nix-Hounds were resting. He used the last of his strength to kill them before collapsing against the black volcanic rock, body racked with sobs.

He couldn’t remember ever crying like this before. Not even when he’d been expelled. All of his anger was evaporated, and the shame of sobbing aloud crashed over him in wave after wave. It didn’t matter that nobody could hear him. He was a waste of flesh. He’d given up the right to any dignity. He could die where he lay and everyone he knew would be better off for it. He did nothing but fail.

His stomach churned when Methas burst into his mind at full force. The sound of the splash, the smell of his vomit. Methas’ beard, his flamboyant gestures. It was all waste. He’d wasted Methas. He’d wasted every bit of good will given to him, wasted all of their time. He wished the Morag Tong had just killed him instead of recruiting him.

The Morag Tong.

He’d screwed up. Bad. He could only imagine what they would do to him. Of course they would find him. Of course they would bring him to justice. It was all he deserved. It was all Morrowind deserved.

And how bad would that be, really? He’d prepared himself to die before every single writ, though now he knew he hadn’t actually been ready. How many lives was his own worth, anyway? Councilman Sarethi. Drosa Farano. Galvis Ulven. J’dazh. Barasu Morvayn. The Camonna Tong thug. Methas Hlaalu. It was a lot of names. Maybe he’d inflicted enough damage.

He thought about running away. He would have to leave Morrowind to escape the Morag Tong. Sure, he could afford it, but he wasn’t rich. He’d need to support himself abroad. What was he good for, other than killing people? Guarding Nords or Imperials? Farming? Dying of disease in Black Marsh? Joining a gang of pirates? He’d just as soon join the Dark Brotherhood. The idea made him punch the cracked ashen ground. He’d rather die than leave Morrowind.

There was another option. It scared him more than being killed right here.

He could put his fate in the black-gloved hands of the Morag Tong, and take whatever punishment he deserved. At least then he could die with a shred of self respect. What scared him was the third and final confirmation that he was worthless, if they decided to kill him.

Redoran didn’t want him twice. The pain seared through his chest at the knowledge.

If the Morag Tong didn’t want him either, even if he asked, it would be indisputable proof that he was scum. And he couldn’t find fault with that. If he ran away and was caught, he could at least avoid the question.

But had he learned nothing?

He couldn’t run away anymore. What would come, would come.

If he didn’t pick himself up eventually, something would come by to get him and the dead Nix-Hounds. What was the point in resting up, if he was only going to his execution, anyway?

The dim red sky was choked with ash clouds, and the hot wind whistled into his scarf, clogging it with gray dust. He’d known the smell of the volcano all his life. It never changed. 

He returned to the city.

It was trivial to sneak during an ash storm in Ald-ruhn. As long as he stayed upwind, nobody would even look in his direction. He took the alley behind Skar and wound his way to the front door.

Under-Skar hit him with a new wave of emotion. The cavernous dome was suffocating with memories. Automatically his eyes found Llethri Manor, but that wasn’t where he needed to go. He took the bridge to the hub in the center, and went right instead of left. In front of him was the Ald-ruhn Morag Tong guildhall. How many times had he seen this door, and never dared to look inside? There was good reason to fear that door. Especially today.

He forced his legs to carry him up to the entrance, one trembling step at a time. He might not come out alive. But at least he’d gotten to see his home again. At least he would die on the day he chose, in the place he loved best. At least his death wouldn’t make anyone else suffer. His throat was a solid stone, heavy and painful. 

He could do this.

Rels went inside. It looked much like the surrounding manors, inviting and opulent. The red candlelight reminded him of Balmora, which reminded him of… He swallowed, but it did nothing for the pain there. He peeled off his helmet. It was heavy with dust and sweat, and smelled awful. He wouldn’t need it anymore, anyway.

“I need to speak to the master,” he choked out to the first person he found, a Dunmer woman.

She looked him over with an expression of concern. “Are you here to submit a request for a writ, sera?”

“No. I’m a member.” He hoped desperately that he wouldn’t need to explain.

“Well, all right. Master Andarys should be just over here.” She led him to the main area, past the tree in the center. A severe-looking Dunmer in black was leaning over a table with coins and documents, tracing his finger down a line of figures.

“Master,” the woman greeted, then left.

“Yes. Can I help you?” He didn’t look up from his papers.

Rels tried and failed to clear his throat. Perhaps it didn’t matter how his voice sounded now. “Master. My name is Rels Llethri. Blind Thrall. I...” Master Andarys looked up. “I killed Methas Hlaalu, and I’ve come to accept my punishment.” There. That was all he needed to say. It was out of his hands now.

Master Andarys’ eyes flashed. “Methas is dead? Wait a minute. I know you. You lived here.”

“Yes, Master. I was Lawman of House Redoran, and I was the one guarding Councilman Sarethi. They expelled me, and then I joined the Morag Tong in Vivec.” He coughed painfully.

The master stood up straight and looked down his nose at him. “I see. Sarethi was Methas’ writ. And now you’ve killed him in return. What were you hoping to accomplish?”

The words sounded idiotic now that he was forced to say them aloud. “To rejoin House Redoran, Master.”

“Obviously you were unsuccessful, or you wouldn’t be telling me this. You wish to make amends with the Morag Tong to undo your mistake. Is that correct?”

Rels looked down, trying to keep breathing. He didn’t dare to hope, but it sounded… Or it might be cruelty, making it sound as though he might be reconciled. “...Yes, Master.”

Master Andarys gave him a hard stare. “I will be perfectly frank. Your loyalty is in question. I will give you three options, however. You can accept exile from Morrowind. You can choose to be executed. Or you can accept a writ to prove yourself. Make your decision.”

“Who is the writ for?” A breath of hope filled him. He could stay in Morrowind. He could go back to before he’d killed Methas. He could still belong.

“I cannot tell you unless you accept it. Once you do, you will execute it or die.”

But what sort of target could possibly prove his loyalty, after what he’d done? A tide of dread began to rise in him.

“I accept.”

Master Andarys took a small scroll from the table and handed to him, still looking him hard in the eyes. 

Rels unrolled it, and when he saw the name, the writ tumbled to the floor.

> Manos Llethri
> 
> The afore-mentioned personage has been marked for honorable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild. The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personage.

His father. 


	12. Manos Llethri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter is upsetting. Please use your discretion before reading.

He should have chosen execution.

He picked up the writ from the floor. This paper was both precious and sinister. His hands didn’t know what to do with it, so he gingerly slid it into his pocket and considered what to do. Or how to do it.

The air was gone from his lungs. Ice water flooded his body, and his head swam, kept in place only by the throbbing in his temple. He tried to clench his hands a few times to get the blood back, but only managed to make them twitch. 

Master Andarys was still there before him, but Rels couldn’t see him anymore. There was nobody left in the world, except himself and his father, whom he saw across a yawning void in his mind’s eye. They had business now. 

The red candlelight was burning his vision. 

If he didn’t do this, somebody else would do it. And Manos Llethri would never learn what had become of his son. And what had become of him?

Rels stumbled over to a pillar to put his weight on it, and covered his eyes with one hand. His chitin pauldrons shifted uncomfortably against the solid surface. 

A traitorous thought floated into his head: The longer he waited, the harder it would get.

He wanted to get out of this place. The air was heavy, offensive. He didn’t know how he got back to the entrance without tripping over his numb feet, but seemingly instantly, he was at the door again. So he would leave it alive. The thought gave him no comfort now. With deliberate movements, he stepped out over the threshold into the main chamber.

Skar had once been a living crustacean. Rels had spent many afternoons as a young child imagining the giant crab creature scuttling over the land and splashing into the sea, where its equally giant family waited. The creaking of the rope bridges all around the interior used to make him nervous. But now he thought it wouldn’t be so bad if the wooden planks broke underneath him.

His heart beat heavy and sickly as he raised his eyes slowly to the door to Llethri Manor all the way across the enormous room. Guards patrolled the walkways like bone-colored ants. Maybe they would stop him. Maybe they would kill him first, before he had to murder his father in cold blood.

If he’d thought it was hard to come to the guildhall, it was nothing to going to his old home. He didn’t know how long he stood there, holding on to the rope railing for support. The fibers cut into his palm.

The longer he waited, the harder it would get. After all this time of missing his father, now he never wanted to see him again.

Every step creaked under his foot. He kept hold of the rope, knowing any minute his legs could give out. When he reached the center, a guard spoke to him.

“Llethri? You came back? Is that allowed?” He didn’t know who the guard was from his voice, but Rels was most likely infamous among them.

“Yeah.” His voice came out as a croak. He tried to brush past the guard, who hesitated before moving out of the way. Rels was disappointed to be let go.

Finally, he made it to the door. It opened easily.

The inside was so warm and familiar that he nearly collapsed right in the entryway under the weight of it. He hadn’t seen the place in months, but he could tell that nothing had moved an inch. The textures and smells of home sharpened in focus until he could sense every detail of every corner that he looked at. It was overwhelming. A thwarted yearning threatened to consume him from the inside.

He blocked everything out. Something much worse awaited him deep inside the house.

“Rels? Is that you?” A girl’s voice called out to him. He glanced over at her, then immediately closed his eyes in pain. It was Iolnya, his second cousin, a daughter of one of the manor guards. A few years younger than him, she looked more mature than he’d ever seen her.

“Not now,” he mumbled, before striding away to the private quarters. She shouldn’t be around for this. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she let him go too. 

As he approached his father’s room, Rels remembered how his face had looked when he was branding Rels’ hand. His father had always been a serious type, but on that day his features might have been carved from stone. How was he ever going to be able to do this? Would his father go so far as to kill him in self-defense? It seemed an even more pitiful death than starving out in the wastes. Being put down once and for all by the one who’d sent him away. Deserving it.

With a cold and sweaty hand he pushed open the door. His father sat in a chair next to his bed, reading a book.

He looked up when Rels came in, and sneered. “Ah, yes, the Morag Tong. I suspected I might—Rels?” His sneer dropped and was replaced by shock. “What are you doing here? From the last I heard, you were living as a tramp in the bowels of Vivec.”

Rels’ heart leapt into his throat. His father had been asking after him? He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. The air wasn’t getting in.

His father examined his face, then his armor and weapons. “Rels… What are you really doing here?”

Rels resisted the urge to wipe his cold face, and took out the writ with a shaky hand. His father knew.

Manos Llethri got up and stood before his son, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be the one to do this, you know. I’ll get you passage into Skyrim. You don’t need to be mixed up in all this.”

The first tear found its way into his eyes as he responded quietly, “Deed above kin, Father.”

There was a long pause. 

His father smiled. 

It felt as though reality was gone, replaced by a twisted dream world. Rels could only gape.

“So.” Inhale. “It seems you’ve made something of yourself, after all. Say the line and do it, then, son.”

He turned around and knelt before him, offering Rels the best position to cut his throat from behind. Even as his stomach churned, Rels had never admired his father more than he did now, in this moment of fearlessness and grave dignity. If he could only aspire to be such a warrior. The feeling of unreality heightened as Rels unrolled the writ, cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice that was not his own.

“Manos Llethri. You have been marked for honorable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild.”

Then he drew his shortsword. The one belonging to his family. He rested his hand on his father’s forehead to steady him.

Rels suppressed a sob. Just do it, and then break down. Just do it now. Give him the clean death he deserves. If it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. Prove yourself. 

He raised the blade, and drew it against his father’s neck, careful to cut in a long, clean line connecting both arteries.

Manos Llethri was silent as he slid to the floor, neck spurting blood in steady beats. It soaked his robes, and splattered on the rug.

Rels took a step back. He dropped the sword. The familiar tang of blood hit him. His entire body was shaking. His mind couldn’t comprehend what he’d just done.

There was only buzzing in his ears.

As he sank to his knees next to the bleeding body, he began to notice how fast he was breathing. But he couldn’t slow down. He ran his hands over his scalp, digging his nails in.

After a few minutes, the bleeding stopped, and everything was still. Only one thought floated to the surface.

His father still loved him.

Rels never wanted to leave this room. He wanted to be punished by this sight forever, until the image of his dead father was burned into his eyes. Until he could make sense of it. He didn’t know how long he knelt there, struggling against the tightness in his chest. He wondered… He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

The sword lay on the rug as Rels left. He glided back to the entrance of the manor, unable to see or hear anything around him. He didn’t know if Iolnya saw him. He’d never see this house again. It wasn’t his.

Skar’s dim light was blurred and distorted. Rels slouched outside the door, squinting around for a guard. One noticed him, and Rels stared at him until he approached. The guard came up to him. He wasn’t sure who it was under the helmet, but it didn’t matter. He handed the guard his writ.

The guard unrolled it, then went still. He stared at the name for several long seconds. Then looked up at Rels. 

Rels tried not to imagine the guard’s expression under the helmet. He knew what he was. Nothing needed to be said. He walked past the guard and returned to the Morag Tong.

Master Andarys nodded once at him and showed him to his new quarters.


	13. Back to Vivec

It was a long ride on the silt strider to Khuul. Rels’ legs were stiff when he got off at the platform, and he stretched as he looked around. It was small for a town, not more than a few shacks on the pier and a single Redoran shell-house overlooking the shore. A chill blew in over the Sea of Ghosts. Seasons in Morrowind were subdued by the heat of Red Mountain, but here he could tell it was winter. He covered his mouth with his scarf to smother the fog from his breath.

It was mid-morning, but this far north it felt earlier. The damp made his teeth chatter, so he made for the tradehouse. A few people were inside. The trader, a husky-looking Nord, gave him a once over. Like most Nords, his eyes were unsettlingly white around the irises. Combined with their pale skin, they looked like ghosts.

Rels approached the counter and took off his helmet. His hair, now a little longer, stuck to his neck. The Nord was paying close attention.

“What’s your business here, stranger?” asked the Nord.

“Just passing through. Got anything to eat?”

He gave Rels a kwama egg, still staring. Rels tucked in, ignoring him. It was poorly cooked but edible.

“Khuul’s an odd stop for tourists. What are you really doing here?”

Rels suppressed the urge to sneer, and kept eating. “I won’t be here long.”

When he was finished, he stepped back outside. The morning air seeped through his armor, and he wished he’d worn more. Hopefully he could get this done quickly.

There was a boat at the dock, but he could only see Dunmer at work. He was looking for a Nord, Oggvir. If he was lucky, Oggvir would make himself known today, and Rels could go home. Still, it was nice to be away from Ald-ruhn sometimes. At least nobody knew him here. It was almost as if he could be another person entirely.

After prowling the perimeter of the village, where he saw only Dunmer, something in the distance caught his eye. Another dock. He stuck to the trees as he approached it, keeping an ear out for voices. Sure enough, the lilt of a Nordic accent was carried on the breeze. More than one, it seemed. He didn’t hear any names yet.

He crouched just out of sight and listened, settling in for a long wait.

Something black bubbled up in his chest, but he pushed it down. When it came back, he brushed the pad of his thumb across the tip of his dagger. Not hard enough to bleed, but enough to distract himself. The feeling went away for now.

If he just kept that feeling down, eventually it might give up and leave him alone.

His feet grew sore from crouching on the cold, mossy ground, so he got up to stretch as quietly as he could. For a long time, all he heard was the gentle wash of the sea and a few foreign seabirds. After a few hours, he heard what he needed.

“Oggvir! Where are you doing?”

Approaching footsteps. Stop.

“Tolgeir told me to get more rope.” Footsteps again. He was heading towards the village.

Oggvir passed by Rels’ tree. A large battleaxe strapped to his back, he reminded Rels of Galvis Ulven, but the barbarian look suited the lumbering Nords better. His hair reached down his back and was decorated with braids. Well-armed for a dock worker, but with no armor over his tunic. Speed would be the key.

He followed the Nord until they were halfway between the dock and the village, then addressed him.

“Oggvir Half-Haft. You have been marked for honorable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild.”

Oggvir spun around in surprise when Rels began speaking, but didn’t seem to follow the words he said.

“Eh? What guild?” Oggvir barked, drawing his axe.

Rels stormed ahead, plunging his new Orcish dagger into the man’s chest. Oggvir choked in pain and let the axe fall out of his grip. He was dying already, but to avoid being detected, Rels then sawed through the sinew of his muscled throat. Rels gagged. It was messy, but the Nord would be silent much sooner. 

He passed a guard his writ on his way to the silt strider, and rode back to Ald-ruhn. It was a long day.

It was sunny in Ald-ruhn. He could see all the way to Red Mountain. As usual, he detached himself, pretending not to notice how people he’d known all his life gave him a wide berth. An assassin wasn’t supposed to be well-known, and Rels had requested transfer twice, but instead of letting him escape the memories here, Master Andarys just sent him on the most distant writs in the jurisdiction instead. Rels supposed it was a miracle he hadn’t been demoted. In fact, he’d been promoted twice.

He must be doing something right. After all, there was nothing else left for him to do.

“White Thrall.” Master Andarys called him from his desk.

“Yes, Master.”

“I’ve received communication from the Grandmaster. You’re to be transferred to Vivec, effective immediately.” Then he pointed his pen at a sack on the desk. “And your payment.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Rels, taking the gold. For the first time in a long time, his heart felt lighter. It was the first piece of good news since coming to this place.

It was bittersweet to leave his home behind again. He loved the place, but it didn’t love him. Even when he did get his mind off his family, nobody spoke to him outside of the guild. He wouldn’t speak to someone like himself, either. When he had everything packed to go, he didn’t bother telling anyone good-bye. 

He took the silt strider to Balmora, but avoided the city. Instead he continued south down the road, retracing his steps to Pelagiad. He was halfway to Vivec already, and it might do him good to savor the freedom before he was stuck in another city. He did not think about Balmora as he followed the river. He did not glance in the river for bodies. He did not think about the bridge Methas had fallen from. He did not imagine fetid water filling his lungs.

He thought about his only friend, Ahnassi. If she was even still all right.

Pelagiad bathed in the last rays of the sun as people, mostly Imperials, closed up for the day. The Halfway Tavern was fully lit, and a haze of foreign tobacco smoke greeted him when he went inside. He’d forgotten the publican’s name, but she served him some stew, and, because it felt like a good day, Cyrodilic brandy again. He savored the taste. He could drink it every day now if he wanted, but something felt special about it.

Rels sat there a while after he was finished. Maybe it had been a long shot to try and find her here. Maybe she was working. Or dead. Or moved back to Elseweyr. His throat turned sour. Maybe she’d been lying about being friends.

Soft footsteps padded down the stairs, and there was Ahnassi. She saw him at the bar and hurried to sit beside him. 

“Hi, Ahnassi,” Rels said. Her ears spun forward and her eyes lit up.

“Good friend! Ahnassi was thinking you would never come back. How many moons were you away?”

Rels relaxed. “Not that many. I went to Ald-ruhn, and couldn’t leave for a while. Is the Camonna Tong still bothering you?”

“No, Ahnassi is safe for now. Thanks to her good friend. But it is so very dull here. Did you at least bring Ahnassi something from that place? Something to share a care?”

Of course he’d almost forgotten how odd she was. She was expecting a gift. Rels hesitated a moment, then rummaged in his bag for anything he could part with. There were throwing knives, spare clothes, lockpicks, a book… The book would do. He pulled out his copy of “The Anticipations,” the only book he carried, and handed it to Ahnassi. There would be others in Vivec.

She flicked her tail in excitement. “Ahnassi does not know this one. What does it tell about?”

“It’s about the three Good Daedra, Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala.”

“This is very interesting,” she purred. “Dark Elf religion is not far from Khajiit. Always Ahnassi listens. Ahnassi hears Mafala many times.”

“Really? What does she tell you?” The small white bottle swam in Rels’ mind, his heart skipping a beat.

She propped up her chin with her elbow on the bar. “Prrrr. Ahnassi knows you are a servant of Mafala. This is why you are such a good friend.”

“And what is it that you do?”

“Not very much. Ahnassi finds opportunity where it arises. Pelagiad is new, with many opportunities. But you will leave, yes?”

Rels nodded. “I’m on my way to Vivec.”

Her tail flicked, and she rested her hand on his. Rels bit his lip. “But it is very far to the city, and it is late. The moons are high in the sky. You can go in the morning.”

Nerves flared in his stomach, but for once it wasn’t out of fear. “I guess you’re right.”

“Prrrrr. Come, It is not far to Ahnassi’s house.”

The sun rose out of the mist early the next morning as Rels continued on his way to Vivec. He wasn’t carrying anything valuable, but he checked his bag when he left, just in case. It was all there. He loosened his scarf to take in the fresh morning air. His roots were at the foot of the volcano, but it was the breeze from the Inner Sea that lifted his spirits now. He wanted to forget everything from before. Toss it in the fire. Vivec would be his home now, for as long as the Grandmaster willed it.

But what did Eno Hlaalu want with him there?

Methas Hlaalu’s proud bearded face made its daily return to his mind’s eye. How long would it take to be rid of it? The Grandmaster’s cousin. Was he going to be punished again? At least there was nothing as bad as what he’d already faced.

His throat was closing up again. He stopped for a moment on the road to take several deep, steadying breaths. Forget it. What was done was done. He was what he was. The dark flood of shame crept down around his ears. A fencepost was next to him. He kicked it, relishing the sting in his toe. He kicked it again. Punched it. His limbs were singing with energy. He punched it again as hard as he could. His knuckles scraped on the rough wood and began to bleed. Anything was better than the shame. The futility. The abject grief. 

Anything was better than this.

Vivec emerged from the horizon, hulking over the water. Rels peered up at the Foreign Quarter canton. He wondered how his old friend Raril was doing. Probably the same as ever. He would have to visit the Black Shalk again soon.

Rels shut off his mind at the bridge to the Redoran canton, until he crossed the next one to the Arena. He’d had enough of Redoran for a lifetime. He walked the familiar path to the Arena canalworks, where rushing water cleansed the air and filled the dim corridor with noise. The storage room was the same as he remembered, and he was able to avoid getting zapped by the locked door this time.

His heart jumped when he saw the trapdoor. He remembered being dragged down into it, and almost smiled.

The other assassins greeted him as he passed by.

Eno Hlaalu sat at his desk. His high ponytail swayed slightly as he pressed a stamp onto a writ. He looked up.

“White Thrall. Welcome. We have much to discuss.”

Rels waited, unsure what to do. The Grandmaster always seemed to catch him off guard. It was probably the kind words combined with that permanent frown. He was unlike anyone Rels had ever met. He wondered when the kind words would turn cruel.

“Your recent performance has been exemplary.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out an ebony dagger. Then took a small cloth from his pocket and began to polish the blade. Rels’ eyes were drawn to it, and he resisted the urge to step back. The Grandmaster went on. “You have given your blood for the guild, and Mephala is pleased. I name you Brother of the Morag Tong.”

Rels’ mouth went dry. “But… I...” ...killed Methas. He didn’t know whether to say it.

The Grandmaster stared into his eyes. Pinning him in place. Drilling into his soul. “I know why you killed my cousin. I also know why you killed your father. I know what it feels like. My judgment of you was correct. That’s why I’ve called you here to assist me with some special duties.”

Then he offered the dagger to Rels, holding the blade in the cloth. Rels took it. Emotion swelled in his chest. It felt like it would burst.

Eno Hlaalu’s expression softened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been started on a sequel, but no idea when that will come out. Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive feedback is appreciated! Thanks for reading!


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